


riding the rhinoceros

by polkadot



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, First Time, M/M, Nearly Getting Caught, Oral Sex, Playful Sex, handjobs, no infinity war spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: In which T'Challa and Sam Wilson come to a closer acquaintance.





	riding the rhinoceros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> Written before Infinity War was released, and set after _Black Panther_ rather than before IW, if that makes sense. No IW spoilers or (intentional) references.

“So you woke up the popsicle.”

T’Challa inclined his head, responding more to the tone than the words. When Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson had arrived in Wakanda that afternoon, T’Challa had expected the simmering intensity that burned under Rogers’ skin. He knew that Rogers’ focus would not soften until the Captain saw Sergeant Barnes for himself, and understood the results Shuri had accomplished. 

T’Challa had not, however, expected to find Rogers’ restlessness mirrored in his companion. 

Rogers had left with Shuri twenty minutes ago, on their way to a reunion with Barnes, and still Wilson stood at the balcony edge, his hands on the railing, his unfocused eyes resting on the mountaintops of the Jabari. 

“I did very little,” T’Challa admitted. “For this you must thank my sister Shuri.”

Wilson snorted, but the response did cause him to turn, his eyes finding T’Challa’s. “I’m not sure yet whether I _should_ thank her.”

T’Challa did not take offense. He knew the history that lay behind the words as well as Wilson did, knew the red-soaked lines of Barnes’ ledger. 

Yet there must always be hope for redemption, for every man. T’Challa had believed that when he offered to host Barnes in Wakanda, to protect him from the outside world and to seek a cure for the conditioning that had been seared into his brain, and now he believed it even more strongly. Having lost his cousin, having wept over his body and mourned his shadowed life, T’Challa had no appetite for condemnation. If Barnes could change and become once more the man he longed to be – and Shuri swore that she had reversed the conditioning – then T’Challa would welcome it. If only such a miracle could have been wrought for N’Jadaka.

“It seems to me,” he said, choosing his words with quiet care, “that the Captain will thank her sufficiently for the both of you.”

There was a moment when T’Challa was unsure how Wilson would react. Whatever tension had sung under his skin since his arrival, perhaps it was wound too tightly for humor. 

Then Wilson smiled. It lit up his face, that smile, sparking a warmth in his eyes that stirred unkingly butterflies in T’Challa’s stomach. “I keep telling him he’s obvious.”

“I think,” T’Challa said, placing a hand on the balcony rail, “that any question of subtlety was lost when Captain Rogers defied the world in order to save the Sergeant’s life.” 

Their hands looked similar on the balcony rail together. Perhaps they could have been brothers, in another life; but T’Challa had never had a brother, only an unknown cousin, and he was becoming aware that the incipient heat in his body was far from brotherly. 

The smile still hovered at the side of Wilson’s mouth. “You know, you don’t have to keep using their ranks.”

T’Challa raised an eyebrow. “It is a mark of respect.”

“Well,” Wilson said, and it couldn’t just be T’Challa’s imagination that he had casually moved his hand closer to T’Challa’s. “They’re Steve and Bucky. Do I have to call you King T’Challa all the time?”

His name rolled off Wilson’s tongue as naturally as if the American had spoken it all his life. Startled, T’Challa met Wilson’s eyes, and saw the smug satisfaction of someone who knew he’d surprised. 

“Nobody seemed to know any Wakandan in the States,” Wilson said, answering T’Challa’s unspoken question. “So I asked your sister to teach me a little. Seemed rude to just assume we’d speak English all the time.”

T’Challa made a mental note to talk to Shuri about who else she was corresponding with, now that she had gleefully thrown herself into her Wakandan outreach efforts. Not that he intended to curb her exertions – he doubted anyone had ever been able to curb Shuri’s exertions in her life – but he’d like to be prepared the next time a handsome stranger said his name like a caress.

“What did she teach you?” His voice sounded rough to his ears. 

Wilson pursed his lips, and T’Challa snatched his eyes up again with a guilty start. “Hello, goodbye, thank you, please, nice to meet you,” he said, with a passable accent. 

“You have a gift for language.”

The smile was back at the corners of Wilson’s lips. “Oh, one more - damn, you look hot today, T’Challa.”

The phrase raced across T’Challa’s skin like a spring breeze, leaving goosebumps behind. He controlled his expression with an iron strength. Shuri was a menace sometimes. Why couldn’t it have been something ridiculous, like “I am a rhinoceros”? Perhaps she hadn’t known the way Wilson made T’Challa’s heart pound (although T’Challa generally tended to assume that Shuri knew everything, as it was safer that way), but it was still a cruel joke, to fluster T’Challa in front of their important guests. Shuri did always like to poke holes in what she called his self-importance. 

“Ah,” he managed. “I don’t know what Shuri told you that meant, but it was wrong.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow, a lazy movement that made T’Challa swallow. “Was it? I put that one together myself from the Wakandan-English dictionary app she sent me to try out. Guess it’s still got some bugs for her to fix.”

T’Challa met his eyes. “What were you trying to say?”

Wilson grinned. There was a wicked edge to that grin, something that slid down T’Challa’s spine and made him take a breath with the force of it. Wilson’s grin widened.

Well. As long as he was betrayed…

T’Challa stepped forward and slid a hand around the back of Wilson’s neck, closing the distance between them with one sure move. 

If he had had any doubt about his reception, it vanished instantly. Wilson’s mouth opened under his with alacrity, and Wilson’s tongue was as clever in movement as it was in speech. T’Challa lost himself in his partner for a long minute, reveling in the press of Wilson’s strong body against his own, the clutch of Wilson’s hands at his back. The shiver of attraction that had run electric between them since Wilson’s arrival had sparked to life with a vengeance, and T’Challa danced in its flame. 

“So,” Wilson said, when they broke apart. He traced a finger along the curve of T’Challa’s cheekbone, and T’Challa felt his eyes drop half-shut. He was not truly a big cat, to luxuriate in the stroking movement, and yet… He turned his face into Wilson’s hand.

Wilson broke into his thoughts.“You didn’t answer my question. Do I have to call you King T’Challa?”

“Shut up,” T’Challa said, and Wilson was still laughing when T’Challa dropped to his knees, reclaiming the upper hand in one fell swoop.

T’Challa hadn’t done this in a while – recently he’d had other things taking all his time – and he almost never moved this fast. Usually he liked long, slow kisses, tension slowly ramped up until he and his partner tumbled into bed together, unable to stretch matters out any longer. But today he had been trying not to watch the way the muscles moved underneath Wilson’s skin for a good hour, ever since the two Americans had arrived, and therefore it was not the day for extended foreplay.

“Shit,” Wilson said, sounding almost reverent, as T’Challa unbuckled Wilson’s belt, and then “ _Shit_ ,” as T’Challa hooked his fingers under Wilson’s waistband and pulled his trousers down. 

Wilson was wearing nothing underneath his trousers – perhaps it was an American practice – and T’Challa’s dick jumped at how hot he found that. It was the work of a moment to lean in, letting his breath ghost across Wilson’s dick as he hovered above it, and look up in time to catch Wilson wetting his lips with his tongue. 

If he had worried about seeming coltishly over-eager, he no longer did, for his own desire was mirrored down to him in the gleam of Wilson’s eyes.

“T’Challa,” Wilson said, and this time his accent wasn’t quite as good, because it caught in the middle as T’Challa got his mouth around Wilson’s dick. 

Even though it had been a while for T’Challa, it turned out that fellatio was just like riding a rhinoceros. Wilson was longer than T’Challa could comfortably take in his mouth, but he wrapped his hand around the base of Wilson’s cock and went to work with alacrity. He loved sucking dick – loved the hitch in Wilson’s breath, the tight clutch Wilson had on the balcony rail, the clean sweat-smell of Wilson’s skin. There was no power on Earth as complete as the power over a man whose dick was in your mouth, and T’Challa grinned, and sucked harder.

“Fuck,” Wilson said, his free hand coming to rest on the back of T’Challa’s head, not pushing, but a solid warm weight. 

T’Challa had not woken that morning anticipating being on his knees in front of one of the Avengers, ravenously devouring his cock. His day had consisted of a council meeting, training with Okoye, lunch with W’Kabi and Nakia, negotiations with M’Baku over an adolescent exchange program between the Jabari and the rest of Wakanda, and what Shuri called ‘movie night’, in which she attempted to impart non-Wakandan culture to T’Challa through such mediums as Bollywood, wuxia, and the Three Stooges. 

Then the Americans had arrived, a day early, and T’Challa’s afternoon had diverted from schedule. Pleasantly diverted, he noted conscientously, pulling Wilson closer to him and trying to take more of his cock into his mouth. However unanticipated this turn of events had been, it was not unwelcome. 

Wilson seemed to share his conviction, if the rapidity of his breath and the way his fingers clutched at T’Challa’s hair were any testimony. 

“I’m gonna –” Wilson bit out, which was elliptical but understandable in any language. 

T’Challa, not wanting to make a mess, simply smiled and sucked harder. 

Wilson’s hand slid from the back of T’Challa’s head, down to T’Challa’s shoulder, where it clutched convulsively. T’Challa was going to have bruises there tomorrow, and the thought went straight to his dick, already almost painfully hard. The powers of the heart-shaped herb only healed if T’Challa _wanted_ them to, and these bruises he would wear with pride and a certain lustful nostalgia.

Wilson’s dick jerked in his mouth, and then he was coming. American semen tasted much the same as Wakandan semen, T’Challa thought philosophically, while swallowing. 

After, he sat back on his heels, smiling up at Wilson. “Welcome to Wakanda.”

Wilson blinked down at him, his face pleasure-slack, but then reached a hand to help pull him back to his feet. “If that’s the way your country welcomes visitors, I’m surprised you’ve been left alone for so long.”

“Only special visitors,” T’Challa said, and kissed him.

Wilson kissed like a wildfire, impatient and full of sparks, even though he might have been expected to be lingering in post-orgasmic languor. T’Challa, his own lust yet unsated, felt his blood rising in an answering thrill, and returned the kiss with equal force. He caught Wilson’s lip between his teeth and nipped, not entirely gently, then slid his mouth under the jut of Wilson’s jaw. 

Wilson’s breath caught in his throat, and then he made a low guttural sound, his fingers clenching on T’Challa’s bicep. “Damn, T’Challa. Give me a sec.”

“Give you a second for what?” T’Challa murmured, before returning to his quest to leave his mark on Wilson’s skin.

“For this,” Wilson said, and then his hand was snaking inside T’Challa’s clothing and finding T’Challa’s dick.

This was entirely acceptable to T’Challa. He rested his head on Wilson’s shoulder, periodically scraping his teeth under Wilson’s jawline or nipping at Wilson’s ear, but primarily concentrating on the bone-deep pleasure of Wilson’s hand sliding along his dick. This close, Wilson smelled like something spicy and intoxicating, and his hand was moving maddeningly slow, drawing out T’Challa’s pleasure and refusing to let it crest. 

“Faster,” he said in Wilson’s ear, smiling as Wilson’s breath hitched. 

Wilson slowed his stroke, as if just to be contrary, and T’Challa drew breath to swear at him.

“Sam, you in here?”

T’Challa nearly choked, and Wilson stiffened against him. Surely Shuri and Captain Rogers could not have returned this quickly – and yet that had certainly been the Captain’s voice coming through the opening door. In another moment he would round the corner and come across his friend and the king of Wakanda in an entirely undignified position.

For once, T’Challa could think of nothing to say, nothing to ward off the coming embarrassment.

Luckily, the man in his arms was not similarly afflicted. “Sock on the door, Steve!” he said, his voice uneven, the cheerfulness strained. 

The steps stopped. “What?” Rogers sounded bewildered.

Wilson looked skyward. “Go have Shuri show you…” He paused.

“The rhinoceroses,” T’Challa supplied, in an undertone.

“The rhinos,” Wilson said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

There was another long waiting moment of silence, before Rogers’ steps receded, and then the door closed behind him. 

T’Challa laughed, his shoulders shaking in silent mirth.

“Crap,” Wilson said. “Now I’m going to have to listen to a lecture all the way home about how it’s a bad idea to seduce foreign leaders.”

“I think I was the one who seduced you,” T’Challa said, his voice sticky like honey. 

Even while their discovery had been imminent, Wilson had never released his grip on T’Challa’s cock. Now he started stroking again, and T’Challa bit his lip against the goodness of it. “We’ll call it a mutual seduction.”

“In any event,” T’Challa said, pressing a kiss to the mark under Wilson’s jaw, “he can hardly claim the high ground in a debate over the appropriateness of sleeping with one’s allies.”

“You’re far too coherent right now,” Wilson said, and sped up his hand.

T’Challa surrendered to pleasure, and began spinning into bliss. 

~

Much later, after they had set their clothing to rights and were walking sedately through the palace together, Wilson said thoughtfully, “You know, I’m a bit jealous of Steve.”

“How so?” T’Challa felt gloriously languid. He could hardly suppress the smile that desperately seemed to want to spread over his face. (But if he didn’t regain his composure, Shuri would instantly become suspicious, and that wasn’t a discussion he particularly wished to have. So he kept resolutely trying.)

“He got to see rhinos. You have rhinos?”

“We do indeed,” T’Challa said. “You will have to return for a visit, and I will introduce you to W’Kabi, their master. Perhaps he will even let you ride one.”

“I wouldn’t mind learning more about Wakanda,” Wilson said, and his smile was sharp, the flash of his teeth sending a new flicker of lust down T’Challa’s spine. 

“Wakanda wouldn’t mind learning more about you,” T’Challa returned. He was keeping a straight face, but he was fairly sure his eyes were crinkling at the edges. It was impossible to be entirely poker-faced when his skin was still prickling with goosebumps.

Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Was that metonymical?”

By way of an answer, T’Challa pushed him into a shadowed corner and recklessly leaned in to steal a last kiss, his heart soaring as high as the mountains. 

~


End file.
